


After Hours

by thebisexualbanshee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Ficlet, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, One Shot, SPN - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 04:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebisexualbanshee/pseuds/thebisexualbanshee
Summary: Despite Dean’s claims, very few bars were still open. Without a real job, every night felt like a weekend night, and he’d neglected to remember that it was, in fact, a Tuesday. Everything within a thirty-mile radius was either closed, or closing soon, except one small place in the hipster district of one of the small downtowns they drove through. They were open until four on weeknights, sunrise on weekends, and they could sell on Sundays.“My kind of place,” said Dean to Cas as they parked. “Even if it does look like a chick bar.”“The Box and Basket,” said Cas, reading the bar’s neon sign. “I don’t understand.”“They probably sell like, desserts or pastries or some shit. In little boxes. Or baskets,” said Dean.“Why do you think that?” said Cas.Dean shrugged. “Chick bar,” he reasoned, and got out of the car to head inside.





	After Hours

The hunt had taken a lot out of them. It was one of those milk-run cases that never really turns out to be a milk-run case: your standard haunting, Sam had said. A simple salt-and-burn. But of course it wasn't, because it never is. In this case, though, it was the emotional languor, rather than any physical fight, that took a toll on Team Free Will. 

It was at the asylum they'd raided for souls to defeat The Darkness, and they'd gotten plenty, but a place that old with that much energy was always going to hold onto something, and a few stragglers stayed behind. It had been quiet for a while, and they really had bigger problems, but some dumb kids had broken in again, as they do every so often, and only one made it out. So it made the news, and the news got back to the boys in the bunker. 

The ghost, they found, had suffered from an exceptionally harrowing case of multiple personality disorder in his lifetime, and the effects followed him into the afterlife: one ghost seemed like three, seemed like seven, seemed like twelve, like a spectral fun-house mirror, sans fun. And to make matters worse, the poor bastard had no family, and was cremated in the hospital morgue with all the other poor bastards with no family. So finding his remains, or one of his belongings, wasn't an option. The only thing to do was trap the ghost and seal it away with a spell--something that didn't sit well with any of them, but was particularly troubling to Castiel. 

The angel, in spite of his ever-growing humanity, still felt the pangs of failure when a human soul--his Father's perfect creation, the thing he was created to protect--wasn't afforded any kind of rest. Even Hell, he said, came with a note of finality. But this? This was a fate crueler than damnation, to be stuck, constantly, in the only temporal realm in all of creation. Even with how hard they fought to protect it, life, Castiel said, was the most painful and unfortunate part of existence. 

It bothered them all—later, Sam would tell Dean of the nightmares that followed this hunt—but in the immediate moments that followed, the pain found the deepest, most parasitic roots in Castiel, and when the angel was breaking, it broke Dean too. 

That night, none of them could sleep. Sam drowned it out with research, buried himself in the bunker’s archives with a Dave Matthews Band playlist and closed the door behind him. Dean knew better than to bother him, and anyway, he had his own coping mechanisms: a fifth of bourbon, porn on the laptop, and headphones full of Black Sabbath. It worked for a while—he even managed to drift off a few times. But each time he did, he was startled awake by a pair of blue eyes in his dream, wide and pained, something in them much older than the body that held them. And he knew Cas didn’t sleep, that there’d be no R.E.M. relief for the angel, so after a few hours Dean gave up and made his way to Castiel’s room.

It was empty, but he found Cas sitting at the kitchen table, the empty bottles of what used to be a six-pack beside him. Castiel was hunched across the table, his hands turned upwards on the surface; he was staring intently at his palms. He didn’t look up, but he felt eyes on him, and greeted Dean with a simple, standard, but impossibly tired, “Hello, Dean.”

Finally, Dean slid into the seat across from him. “You okay, man?”

“No,” said Cas, and he sighed. He curled his fingers into his palms, and met Dean’s gaze. “That man’s soul, it was—there is no worse—“ he continued, but faltered, dropped his gaze back to his balled fists.

“I know,” said Dean. His eyes dropped to the angel’s hands, too, and a tug in his stomach prompted him to reach out and take one. Instead, he simple said, obviously, “Beer helps.”

“It did little for me,” Cas admitted, “But I had to try something. I drank it all—I’m sorry. I’ll go get more,” he said, and pushed up from the table. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Dean, rising with him. “It’s yours too, y’know. Don’t have to ask. This is your home too. You gotta know that by now.”

“I do,” said Cas, after a beat. “Thank you.”

“How about this,” said Dean, checking his watch. “We got…two more hours before the bars close. Three if we play our cards right with a waitress. Whatcha say? Wanna get out of here for a bit? Change the scene?”

Castiel watched Dean in silence until Dean did that thing with his eyebrows, and finally said, “I think I’d like that.”

“Great,” said Dean, painting on a shit-eating grin. He clapped Cas on the shoulder. “Let’s get.”

Cas couldn’t help but smile. 

***  
  


Despite Dean’s claims, very few bars were still open. Without a real job, every night felt like a weekend night, and he’d neglected to remember that it was, in fact, a Tuesday. Everything within a thirty-mile radius was either closed, or closing soon, except one small place in the hipster district of one of the small downtowns they drove through. They were open until four on weeknights, sunrise on weekends, and they could sell on Sundays.

“My kind of place,” said Dean to Cas as they parked. “Even if it does look like a chick bar.”

“The Box and Basket,” said Cas, reading the bar’s neon sign. “I don’t understand.”

“They probably sell like, desserts or pastries or some shit. In little boxes. Or baskets,” said Dean. 

“Why do you think that?” said Cas.

Dean shrugged. “Chick bar,” he reasoned, and got out of the car to head inside. 

The bar itself was less chick-bar, more hipster-chic, but Dean couldn’t tell the difference. To him, “minimalist” was what he’d call his room in the bunker, not too-white walls with strange, amorphous paintings, or serving drinks out of mason jars—but it was also the only word he could think of to describe the joint. It was sparsely populated—unsurprising for a Tuesday—but the music was good enough, at least: light, classy jazz. Not some Justin Beiber techno shit. A bartender with a barely-there tank top approached as soon as they sat down. 

"What can I get you boys tonight?" she asked, placing napkins. 

“Whiskey,” said Dean, side-eyeing Cas. “Two whiskeys. Actually—just bring the bottle.”

“Sure thing. But you better tip well,” she said, and winked.

“I’m the best tipper,” said Dean, grinning. 

“Be right back with that,” she said, and disappeared. 

Dean turned to Castiel, and his intent was to say something lewd about their waitress, but Castiel was looking at his hands again, watching his fingers twist up the napkin. “I get it, man,” he started, and Cas looked up. “I do. But you can’t let it get to you. You can’t dwell on it. It’ll eat you alive.”

Castiel shook his head. He tried to speak, but failed. So Dean prompted, “Talk to me, Cas.”

And, prompted, Cas talked. “His soul belonged in Heaven,” he said. “Or Hell. Even Purgatory, just—we failed him. His time on Earth was suffering, and we couldn’t—we couldn’t save him.”

“I know,” said Dean.

“How do you do it?”

“I drink,” said Dean, obviously. “And I don’t. Do it, I mean. It’s hard, man. But I try. It’s—y’know, it sucks, but it’s a numbers game sometimes. That spirit, he killed a kid. A kid. And he would’ve killed again. So, he’s gonna suffer, and it sucks, but more people are gonna live this way. More kids’ll get to grow up.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cas said. “These years, hunting with you and Sam—you think I’d be better at coping by now.”

“You don’t ever get used to it,” said Dean. “You save the ones you can. And you try to live with it. But—you know, a wise man once told me, ‘You can’t save everyone, my friend.’ I’m trying to listen to him.”

It was sad, but Castiel smiled, and Dean smiled back. The angel opened his mouth to speak, but the waitress came back, settling to glasses of ice and a bottle of house whiskey between them. 

“So,” she said, beginning to pour. “How long have you two been together?”

“Eight years,” said Castiel.

“Woah, we’re not—“ said Dean, their voices overlapping. 

The waitress raised her brows. “So which is it?”

“Cas is—we’re family,” Dean said, shrugging awkwardly. “He’s my brother.”

“Eww,” said the waitress. Cas furrowed his brows, and watched. 

“Eww?” asked Dean. 

“Yeah, eww,” she said. “I got a brother. Never looked at him like you looked at him, though.”

“He’s—we’re not blood,” said Dean, fumbling. 

“Dude, come on,” said the waitress, rolling her eyes. “Do you know where you are? Literally nobody cares here.”

“Cares about what?” said Dean.

“Cares if you’re gay,” she said. 

“Woah, I’m not—we’re not—”

“Dean,” said Cas, interrupting, but Dean continued. 

“We’re not a thing,” said Dean. 

“Dean,” said Cas again.

“I mean, not that I’m judging, we’re just not—I don’t go for—“

“DEAN!” said Cas a third time, jabbing a finger at the far wall behind Dean. 

“Dude, what?” said Dean, and then followed Castiel’s point. He hadn’t noticed it when he walked in. Neither of them had; they hadn’t turned around, just went straight to the bar. Strung up behind them was a whole row of multi-colored, striped banners, a giant rainbow flag directly in the center. “Oh,” he gulped.

“Dude,” said the waitress, mocking Dean. “This is a gay bar.”


End file.
